


The Battle Is Over (But The War Is Not)

by im_significant



Category: Beowulf: Return To The Shieldlands (TV)
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Other, Political Marriage, Queerplatonic relationship, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7491858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_significant/pseuds/im_significant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the battle with Abrecan's forces, Rheda must come to terms with her marriage to Rate. Rate is an oblivious asshole. Varr remains Rheda's anchor, as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Battle Is Over (But The War Is Not)

**Author's Note:**

> Uhh this isn't a super happy fic even though the end is nice? Basically I had a panic attack while watching the wedding scene in the finale and had to work through it in writing.  
> Canon political marriage, canon-typical power imbalances between characters due to Politics. Warning for fear of rape but no actual occurrence - it's not overtly stated but the whole fic revolves around this so it’s very present as a concept. Also severe sleep deprivation caused by aforementioned fear, leading to fainting. Brief nonconsensual (non-sexual) touch.

The first night, Rheda’s stomach turns over when Rate follows her to her chambers. She keeps her back straight, ignores him as she changes into her nightclothes. If he is looking, she doesn’t want to know. He’s changed as well by the time she turns back to him. She steels herself.

“I’ll not have another in my husband’s bed so soon,” she says firmly, thankful her voice comes out strong despite the panicked flutter of her heartbeat.

Rate smirks. “I am your husband now.”

She bares her teeth at him. “I would prefer to sleep alone.”

She is surprised, and humiliatingly grateful, when he shrugs and takes a pillow from the bed before arranging himself on the couch. The superior smirk remains, though, and she shudders at his nearness. Sleep does not come that night. Instead, Rheda huddles beneath the quilt and listens to every breath he takes.

There is a knife under her pillow, that Varr pressed into her hand in a stolen moment alone. It takes an effort not to keep her hand wrapped around it as she lies there, even though it would do no good. She can't use it, can't destroy the fragile alliance she and Varr have bought so dearly. Varr had to have known that when he gave it to her, but the sentiment remains, and it gives her a sliver of comfort, at least.

She survives the next day, through endless funerals among the rubble of her people’s livelihoods, without giving away her exhaustion. That night Rate lies down on the couch without question, but Rheda still gets no sleep. The lack of it is affecting her strongly now, but her fear keeps her awake as it had before. She pulls the blankets around her as tightly as she can and stares at the opposite wall, tensing every time Rate shifts in his sleep.

On the third day she finds she can no longer hide how long she’s gone without rest. She knows without using a mirror that the circles under her eyes are dark like bruises, and her hands shake violently as she dresses. Everything is a terrible effort, her body heavy and slow even as her heart beats frantically against the encroaching dizziness. They make it only to the stairs at the front of the hall before her vision blurs and her knees buckle. Voices shout in alarm beneath the low buzz in her ears, but they reach her from a distance, slurred and incomprehensible. She reaches out to anchor herself, to stop the feeling of falling endlessly through ink. Her fingers catch in cloth, but everything is strange and fuzzy. Where is Varr? He’d been behind her, several paces back.

“Rheda?” says a voice above her.

“Varr?”

A snort of laughter. Not Varr. Not- oh. Her vision starts to clear. It is Rate’s face looking down at her, his arm around her, his hand under the back of her head. Her sight clears further as her pulse spikes. She tries to untangle herself from him, push herself away, but her hands have gone numb and her arms are weak and cold.

“Rheda, stop. You’re not well.” Rate shifts her in his arms, stands slowly.

Rheda struggles again, pushing uselessly at his chest with still-shaking hands. “Let go,” she says, gritting her teeth, “I can walk.”

The look Rate gives her is less mocking than she expected, his usual smirk tinged with something like genuine concern. “You’re shaking. You should be in bed.”

He has already carried her back inside, in the direction of her- their- her chambers. She turns her head to look over his shoulder and finds Varr at last, trailing after them, his face full of helpless worry. Varr meets her eyes and hurries to catch up.

“Here,” he says to Rate, holding out his arms, “Go ahead, I will-“

Rate cuts him off with a shake of his head and tightens his hand around Rheda’s shoulder. She wants, irrationally, to spit on him, to kick him, something. But everything is cold and she feels so weak it’s almost painful. They reach her room and she forces herself not to look at Varr again. She may have given away too much already, put him in danger with her attention.

“Wait here,” Rate says to Varr as he crosses the threshold, shutting the door in Varr’s face. He sets Rheda on her bed and she scrambles to sit up, propping herself on one hand and pressing the other to her forehead. Rate stays on his feet, looming over her, but his expression is softer than she would have thought. “You look like you haven’t slept at all,” he says.

It must be the exhaustion that makes her answer simply, “I haven’t.”

Rate looks- unhappy? And surprised, as if he hasn’t been purposefully intimidating her since he arrived. Perhaps he hadn’t thought he could frighten her so badly. She hadn’t, not until the vicious curl of his fingers into the meat on the wedding table, the way he looked straight at her as he spoke. Until her son’s voice from across the room, angry and accusing, as though she didn’t know exactly what she was doing, exactly what the price of her people’s survival would be. She feels sick all over again, as if those bloody fingernails are digging into her guts.

Something must be showing in her face, in the way she holds herself, because Rate is staring at her intently. He reaches out and brushes a hand against her cheek, and his fingers feel like they’re burning her. She jerks away and puts a hand over her mouth, eyes on the floor, hating herself for this weakness. Her other arm is wrapped around her middle, fingers clenched in the fabric of her dress.

“Rheda,” he says, hand still outstretched.

She glances up at him, finally meeting his eyes as defiantly as she can. She doesn't have much dignity left to save, but she won’t let him win this, not after everything she has done.

Rate’s eyes widen suddenly, a look of dawning comprehension. His hand drops to his side. For the first time, he is the one who breaks eye contact, not quite looking down, but away to the side. His gaze scans across the bed, the space between there and the couch with his blanket folded over the back of it, and back to where Rheda sits, shivering with a chill only she can feel.

“Rheda.” His voice is as careful as she’s ever heard it. “At our wedding. I said they were only words. I meant it.” He holds out his hand again, a peace offering. Or a trap.

Rheda narrows her eyes. If this is a joke, it is a cruel one. But then all of his jokes are, sharp and hard-edged as his people and the weapons they carry. And yet- the camp, when she rode out to meet him, his threats straightforward beside Lagrathorn’s hungry eyes and grasping hands- she takes as deep a breath as she can around the tightness in her throat and says, “In that case, I’ll have a room arranged for you.” She makes no move to take his hand. She has had enough of his touch to last her to the end of her life, by now.

He raises one eyebrow at her, lowers his hand more slowly this time. “I am sure I will appreciate a proper bed,” he says. “I will oversee things today. Rest, and regain your strength.”

It’s the closest thing to a declaration of equality she’ll likely ever hear from him, and a much larger concession than she could have hoped for. She gives him half a nod and gestures to the door, and hides her relief when he nods back and makes to leave.

He turns back when he reaches the door, smirk firmly in place again, and says, “You are still my favorite wife.”

Rheda makes a show of rolling her eyes, and he laughs as he disappears down the hall. Finally, the door shuts behind him and she allows herself to slump, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes until she sees sparks. The threat gone, she feels as though her bones have gone too soft to hold her up.

She barely manages to be upright when the door creaks open again, but she recognizes Varr even before she sees him clearly. He slips through the door and locks it behind him. He’s missing his usual grace; he actually stumbles as he hurries to her side, then stops abruptly a few feet away. Rheda looks up at him, hovering there with his eyes cast down and away from her, so careful not to invade her space even with his gaze. She reaches for him just as her control breaks, and he slides to his knees next to her, his hand in hers. His free hand settles on her knee, and the world rights itself. He is here, and she is safe again.

Varr makes eye contact for a fraction of a moment before turning his face away again. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled against the side of her leg.

Rheda’s breath catches. “So am I,” she murmurs back, and then grabs him by the elbows and pulls him against her chest. It’s been so long since she held someone close this way, and finally the tears come. He stiffens in surprise, but then his arms go around her back and she lets herself collapse against him completely.

“Rheda. My thane. I am sorry.” His voice is almost as choked as hers, and she realizes he is crying as well, though he’s hiding it. She pulls back enough to look him in the eye.

“I made my choices, as you made yours,” she says. She catches his face in her palm as he turns away, but doesn’t force him to look at her again. “Varr. It’s alright. He hasn’t- he’s slept on the couch the last two nights. He’ll have his own room from tonight on. It’s alright. I’m alright.”

He lets out a breath that Rheda feels against her wrist, and some of the tension drains out of him. His eyes close and he lets her draw him close again, this time shoving the furs from his shoulders as she does.

“Stay with me?” she asks softly.

“Of course, my thane,” he says into her shoulder. He holds her as he stands, supporting her weight against him.

On impulse, she moves a hand to the back of his head and slides the gold chain forward and off. It hits the floor with a metallic hiss and in the next moment grinds under Varr’s boot as he leans around her to pull the covers back. Rheda lets her hands slide down his arms as he lowers her into bed, is too tired to protest when he removes her shoes for her. He tucks the covers around her with infinite gentleness. She watches him cross the room to take a chair from her writing desk, drag it to her bedside and settle in. Her eyes are heavy now, closing even as she opens her mouth to speak.

“You don’t… you don't really need to stay, there are so many things to be done.”

His fingers brush her forehead, tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “Let Beowulf lead them. Trust in your people. I will stay here.”

Rheda sighs and lets herself drift into sleep at last.


End file.
